At 3:45 on Christmas afternoon, after I had spent two days cooking dinner for my son and daughter-in-law, my doorbell finally rang. It wasn’t them. A courier handed me a manila envelope in Lauren’s handwriting: “We decided to spend Christmas at my mom’s house this year. Last minute change. Hope you understand.” My husband had been gone only nine months. By sunrise the next morning, I found another envelope hidden outside in Richard’s handwriting, and the message inside sent me straight to the desk he had told me not to touch.

“I didn’t forge anything.”

“Who did?”

He looked toward the street.

“David.”

“We were going to replace the money.”

“Who signed my name?”

His voice dropped.

“You don’t understand everything that was happening then.”

“That isn’t an answer.”

“It was fifteen thousand dollars, Mom.”

I stared at him.

Of all the things he could have said, he chose that.

As though the amount made the act smaller.

“As opposed to what?”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Then tell me what you meant.”

He exhaled hard.

“Dad had plenty of money sitting around.”

“Your father’s money.”

“Your money too.”

“Exactly.”

He realized the mistake as soon as the words left his mouth.

I stepped closer.

“Mine too.”

He said nothing.

I held up the check.

“So why didn’t anybody ask me?”

“Because Dad would have made a huge thing out of it.”

“Your father found out afterward.”